


Brung Low

by Merit



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1493968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merit/pseuds/Merit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky never had the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brung Low

They were sixteen and huddling in Bucky’s bed. Steve was thin and all bones and Bucky half expected him to rattle when he shivered. They had hauled the blankets up high so only their foreheads and eyes stuck out and Bucky met Steve’s gaze across the blanket. He grinned and he knew Steve _knew_ because he got a poke in the gut for his trouble. He huffed, rolling his eyes dramatically as if in great pain but that only merited a long suffering expression from Steve.

“What are you grinning about?” Steve whispered, because Bucky’s siblings were sleeping just across the room and it wasn’t a very big room. His mother was out in the main room. This could barely be construed as a closet, but people were making do and had been making do for longer than this Depression.

“Just wondering if I popped my head out if I could see my breath,” Bucky said. Steve gave him a funny look. It had been a cold winter and they had seen their breath many, many times. But Steve shifted and stuck his head out of the blankets. He breathed in and out and his breath came out a frosty white.

“You can,” he said and then coughed, shuddering against Bucky.

“Next time don’t go proving my stupid points,” Bucky said, feeling guilty. His mouth just ran off without his brain sometimes. He knew the cold wasn’t good for Steve. His mother had fretted over their lack of heating but they couldn’t afford the coal. Steve had said he hadn’t had coal at his home either. Bucky’s mother had sighed, patted Steve’s shoulder and said he was being so strong since his mother had died.

“It’s alright,” Steve said huskily, resting his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder. His breathing grew deeper and soon he was snuffling against Bucky’s chest. Steve insisted he didn’t snore, but Bucky knew otherwise.

Bucky adjusted the blankets, tucking them more securely against Steve. Steve was terrible at taking care of himself. If Bucky hadn’t offered for him to stay at his place he’d probably be freezing on the street. As Bucky reasoned, if Steve wouldn’t take care of himself, then Bucky would just have to do the job for him.

 

* * *

 

There were smears of paint – lilac, aqua, crimson, Steve had said excitedly, the colours I see the world in – on Steve’s cuffs. The shirt was big for Steve, purchased with the half hearted belief that one day he would grow big enough for it. It was now nearly half a decade old and still was loose around the cuffs and shoulders. Bucky liked it, the fabric soft from wear and washing, and the stripes becoming a distant memory. He liked how it looked on Steve.

“How was art class?” Bucky asked, deliberately not sighing with relief when they sat down at the booth. It had been a long day and Bucky just wanted to eat and rest. Steve looked up.

Steve had a cut lip and a stormy look in his eyes. He waved off Bucky’s hands – hands he didn’t know had even started reaching for Steve - and sat in their booth, wincing when he leaned back. Bucky didn’t sigh because Steve always hated that – I’m not a child! Don’t fret over me like a nursemaid – and didn’t ask how he was feeling.

“Whaddaya want?” Bucky said. Steve looked up at him, slightly surprised. “What? I’m a honest working man today,” Bucky said, smiling. “Spent the whole day on the docks.” Steve’s gaze went down to his hands and then he _sighed_. Bucky _had_ cleaned them but grease was a bugger to remove and the soap had stung the cuts and bruises he had received that day.

“That work is dangerous Bucky,” Steve chided. “A man got hit by a falling metal pole last week and never woke up. They’re not running things properly.”

“We’ve gotta eat,” Bucky said, shrugging. “I felt pretty lucky, getting chosen to work. Normally they go for people they know. Maybe things are picking up.”

“It has been long enough,” Steve said. He looked grey, Bucky noted critically. He shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this day, he shouldn’t have gone to art class and he shouldn’t have gotten into another fight at least not without Bucky to make things fairer.

Bucky shrugged. “Better than before the New Deal,” he said. Bucky remembered the lines of dusty men, desperate for work. It still was sight in Brooklyn, if not as common.

“It should be better,” Steve said, eyes alight. Bucky didn’t bother hiding his smile. That was Steve for you. Always wanting the world to be better place.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, because sometimes he felt so old and a long day at the docks didn’t help that. It would get better. “How was art class?” He asked again because he liked hearing about Steve’s day.

Steve smiled, only grimacing a little when the movement stretched his cut lip. “We’re learning about Cubism,” he said which sounded like a funny thing to Bucky. “The teacher sent some of my drawings off to some old friends of his,” he said shyly, looking down at the table. “They’ve agreed to publish two of them!”

“That’s great!” Bucky said, grinning.

“They’re even paying me,” Steve said. “Makes me feel like a professional artist.”

“Even better,” Bucky said.

 

* * *

 

Bucky moved out of his mother’s place when he was nearly twenty. He had been working for a few years, on and off, because the jobs weren’t what they used to be. He invited Steve, because there was no way he could afford rent by himself. Steve had shifted on himself and looked at his old boots, half a size too big and dusty.

“I won’t be able to afford rent every week,” he said quietly, gaze skittering across the street, doing everything but looking at Bucky. “Not yet. I’m not selling enough illustrations yet but maybe in a year or two.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Bucky said. “I just need someone to pay the rent here and there and my Mam’s place is getting crowded. There would be a place for you draw,” he added as an enticement. Steve had trouble finding the space and quiet he needed to draw. He often ended up in an old park or a poky library. But Bucky had looked and looked and this place had what Steve called perfect light.

Steve met his eyes and Bucky was taken aback by how beautiful they were. Steve didn’t realise. He saw himself as a skinny, scrawny nobody, but he didn’t look at himself in a mirror very often.

“I’ll cook?” Steve offered.

Bucky screwed up his face and laughed. “What? You want me dead?”

“I know how to make potato soup,” Steve said defensively but he was smiling. “And your Mam said I was getting better.”

“Let’s not waste food like that,” Bucky said and Steve sighed as he gave up. Bucky slung an arm across Steve’s shoulders and squeezed him. “You can clean!” He said cheerfully and Steve screwed his face up.

 

* * *

 

Steve had already tried to join up several times before Bucky was conscripted. They cleared him. Apparently he was healthy as a horse. So much for Brooklyn slum living ruining your health. Bucky walked home that night, silent and sweaty from nerves, wondering how on earth he was going to tell Steve that he had been conscripted and that the last thing he wanted, the very last thing, was to leave Brooklyn and fight over in Europe.

He didn’t. He couldn’t. Steve wanted to be over there so bad but his goddamn constitution held back every time he tried to enlist. So Bucky rolled his shoulders, wiped his forehead and adopted his best Bucky smile. This one always made the dames giggle. It didn’t work quite that way on Steve, but it was charming and slick and in the end Steve didn’t expect Bucky to lie to him.

“You’ll be fighting for justice,” Steve said slightly slurred, because Bucky had insisted they go out and drink. He needed a drink. Needed to forget that he was going to be leaving Steve and might be risking his life in some country Bucky had never had the desire to see.

Bucky finished his whiskey and signalled for another. The barkeep gave a long look but poured a double shot without saying a word. Bucky supposed he saw lots of desperate boys these days.

“Yeah,” he said, rolling the letters around his mouth. “You’ll have to keep up the home front for me, Steve.” At least Steve would be safe here, he reasoned. The Germans seemed to have stalled in their invasion of Europe, according to the papers.

Steve sighed and rolled his eyes, suddenly slumping. “I want to be there with you, Buck,” he said softly. “I don’t like those Germans being bullies. But I want to protect you too.”

If he wanted to say something, this would have been the perfect time. But the words froze on his tongue. Bucky swallowed, throat suddenly dry and took a long gulp of his whiskey. It burned going down his throat, it was cheap stuff, but he had never been able to afford the good stuff. But it was going to get him drunk and that was all Bucky had ever asked of his liquor.

“When are you leaving?” Steve asked. Half of New York had probably asked someone that.

“In a week or so,” Bucky said. The papers were shoved somewhere in his coat. “Enough time to settle my affairs, so they say, and then off to training.”

Steve was quiet for several moments. “You’ll write,” he said, didn’t ask.

“Of course,” Bucky said, blinking because Steve was moving around a lot. Steve sighed and patted him on the shoulder.

“Why don’t we get you home, then,” he said softly. Bucky leaned on Steve, pressing his face against Steve’s neck. Steve gasped a bit, shocked by Bucky’s weight and Bucky leaned back.

“I’m fine,” he said and wiped a hand across his mouth. Just because the ground was shaking didn’t mean Bucky Barnes couldn’t find his way home. But he didn’t move away when Steve slipped an arm around his waist and didn’t let go.

“I’ll help,” Steve said fondly and Bucky let himself be dragged away from the bar.

 

* * *

 

It felt strange to be able to look Steve in the eye, but Bucky could now. It comforted him that they were the same eyes even if the rest of Steve had changed into one of those classic statutes that Steve had so admired. He remembered the red skull and shuddered, imagining if that had happened to Steve.

Steve might have the same old eyes but nearly everyone looked at him with new ones. Most of them had never known Steve as a skinny kid from Brooklyn who never had the good sense to back down from a fight. Bucky sometimes saw Peggy Carter looking at Steve, something Bucky respected. She was a fine dame, an excellent shot and someone willing to go the extra mile for Steve. If Steve ever got his head together, they would make a damn good couple.

Bucky wanted that. Bucky wanted Steve to look at him with soft eyes and then kiss him.

It hurt sometimes. Bucky got good at pulling the trigger. Keeping Captain America safe, keeping Captain America clean. He hated it though. He wanted to back in the Brooklyn to his damp apartment and his noisy neighbours. He had never wanted to come to Europe but he couldn’t leave now. Bucky had already saved Steve’s life three times now. He couldn’t leave Steve to die. Brooklyn wouldn’t be the same without Steve.

“Do you ever wonder what you’ll do after the war?” Steve asked, late one night. They were more than twenty miles in Allied territory and it was as safe as they were going to get. Bucky and Steve always ended up sharing a tent, there hadn’t been a discussion, it just happened.

Bucky hadn’t. “Not sure,” he said. “Not sure what we’ll be going back to,” he said.

Steve was quiet for several moments. “Me too,” he said. “I’m not sure what I’ll be doing when I’m no longer Captain America.”

“They’ll always want a Captain America,” Bucky said.

“I’m not sure,” Steve said and even in the dimly lit tent Bucky could see he was worried.

“You can always be an artist,” Bucky said, shrugging. He’d probably go the docks or a factory. Bucky had never had any great idea of where’d he end up. That had always been Steve, dreaming of a better tomorrow.

“Yeah,” Steve said, turning over so he was facing Bucky. They were so close that their noses were practically touching, close enough to be sharing the same air. “I’ll always have you, Bucky,” Steve said, smiling. “And you’ll always have me.”

Bucky closed his eyes and leaned forward –

He pulled back when he heard hurried footsteps. A soldier cleared his throat and then shoved the tent flap open.

“The General needs you!”

Steve got up immediately but Bucky sagged on the ground, a cold sweat appearing on his body. He had been so close.

“I’ll see you there?” Steve said, and his was still smiling at Bucky.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, finally sitting up. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky fell and the last thing he saw was Steve. He screamed and grasped at the air but there was nothing to grab onto and only sharp rock below. He closed his eyes.

He wanted Steve to be the last thing he saw.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for trope_bingo, for the space 'poor communication skills'. 
> 
> There was a tumblr post going around recently talking about whether Bucky was conscripted or enlisted. It really ups the angst if he was conscripted and fits with a bit of Bucky's characterisation so I decided to go with it.


End file.
